i think i’ve finally found her, well, she found me
Sparrows, they aren’t like parrots or doves or carrier pigeons. They can’t be domesticated. They take to wild flight at the slightest threat. They hop from branch to twig, head a constant swivel. Sometimes great clouds explode out of the trees and a ball of tawny birds wends through the air like a single muscle, a school of winged fish. They don’t know to call the cage a home. They have no thought but ancestral memory.
I asked my wife if she remembered the young sparrow we rescued. ’Hmm?’ she said without breaking contact with the morning paper.
I nursed my coffee mug closer to my chest. ‘That sparrow that hit the window in our apartment. It was only about a month after the ceremony.’
She looked up for moment and searched the space in front of her for the recollection of newlyweds finding the chirping fluff on their balcony. It wasn’t there. ‘No, sorry. Did we bury it?’
‘It wasn’t dead, was the thing,’ I said. ‘Just a little phased. It hopped around flapping one wing and cradling the other. I thought the wing was broken, but you said…you said it was just pushing the pain down. Down into its toes. And when it seeped away, it would be fine. You were right, too. Like an hour later, it hopped onto the windowsill and flew away.’ Sipped my coffee. ‘You really don’t remember? It had those grey feathers on its chest, like a little heart.’
Something glazes in her eye. ‘Oh yeah, I think I remember. There was that discoloration, like a grey jellybean, under its neck.’ Satisfied that I was satisfied, she returned to the paper.
‘How old do sparrows live?’ I asked.
She shrugged without looking. ‘I dunno, but that one’s probably dead. Twelve years since its accident; I don’t think birds live that long.’ After a time, she removed herself from the dining room to dress and leave for the day. I don’t know where she goes anymore.
I stayed at the window, watching as grey-breasted birds poked at seeds in the garden, cold heat building in my toes.
(Title submitted by loveyourchaos.)
